


hallelujah (on your lips)

by GreyMichaela



Series: Chris and Mika [1]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: (ikr), Blow Jobs, Dom/sub Undertones, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, No Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 04:16:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19143400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyMichaela/pseuds/GreyMichaela
Summary: Mika’s in his bedroom, digging through the closet, when Chris saunters in without knocking and flops on the bed.“Hey,” Mika objects mildly. “Don’t get aloe on my bedspread.”“What should I wear tonight?” Chris asks, rubbing his cheek against the soft wool, and he can hear Mika’s sigh. It makes him smile.“Something nice. No ripped jeans.”“Tux?”Mika snorts. “You didn’t bring a tux, shut up. Doesn’t have to be a suit, either. Just classy.”“I’m not classy,” Chris points out, eyes drifting shut again.“Well, you’ll just have to pretend. Now get off my bed and go get ready.”Chris grumbles but obeys.





	hallelujah (on your lips)

**Author's Note:**

> The fact that there were only 9 fics for Mika and Chris on AO3 is a crying shame and demanded to be added to. Because look at these idiots:
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> THE WORST
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> (Disclaimers: standard RPF one, not profiting, not real, etc. Also I don't actually know where in Sweden Mika lives, so I just went with Stockholm as easiest. I DID try to find out but had no luck.)

Chris loves everything about Sweden. The people, the food, the culture—he’s in love with all of it. Right now, facedown in the deck chair beside Mika’s pool, his Kindle on the ground below him so he can read as he soaks up the sun, he thinks dreamily that he never wants to leave.

He turns the page on his book and yawns. Mika’s off doing a charity thing he insisted Chris would be bored attending, and Chris had willingly accepted the opportunity to be a lazy bum for an afternoon. Mika’s taking him out tonight, although he won’t tell him what he has planned, but right now it’s just Chris and his book and the sunlight refracting off the pool, dancing over the concrete under his fingers as he turns another page.

He’s not sure how long he’s been asleep when a heavy weight settles across his hips. Chris murmurs, lifting his head, and Mika shushes him.

“You didn’t bring sunscreen, did you?” His voice is warm and amused.

Chris yawns and relaxes again. Mika’s solid, comforting on top of him, and he’s thinking about falling asleep again as a bottle cap clicks open and something cold splashes his back. Chris yelps and Mika puts a hand on his shoulder, holding him down.

“You burned, you idiot. Be still.”

Chris grumbles to himself but relaxes as Mika begins spreading what smells like aloe vera gel over his sun-hot skin. After the initial shock, he has to admit it feels good, the coolness seeping into his pores and banishing the heat he hadn’t even realized was gathering.

“Time ‘sit?” he mumbles.

“Nearly six,” Mika says, hands still busy. “You have an hour to get ready.”

“How was your thing?” Chris turns his head, peering up at him, and is rewarded by one of Mika’s slow, sweet smiles.

“It was good. Met a bunch of kids, gave them autographs, and then talked to them about hockey for awhile.”

Chris hums, watching him over his shoulder out of the corner of one eye. Mika’s focused on the task at hand, making sure every square inch of Chris’s exposed skin is slathered in the cooling gel, eyes intent, and Chris wants to kiss him.

The urge isn’t new. He’s felt this way for awhile, even if it took him almost a year to figure out _what_ it was he was feeling when Mika draped himself over Chris’s shoulders on the bench, or got unnecessarily close to him just to whisper in his ear. Chris will be the first to admit he’s not exactly swift on the uptake, but even he can’t ignore the kick of his heart when Mika presses his forehead to Chris’s, the way he turns toward Chris like a gravitational pull after a goal, wreathed in smiles, those sober brown eyes alight with joy.

Chris yawns and Mika pats his arm, avoiding the sunburn.

“You may never play the piano again, but I think you’ll live.” He stands and Chris rolls onto his side to watch him stride away, back into the house.

After a few minutes, Chris gathers his Kindle, drags himself to his feet, and follows.

Mika’s in his bedroom, digging through the closet, when Chris saunters in without knocking and flops on the bed.

“Hey,” Mika objects mildly. “Don’t get aloe on my bedspread.”

“What should I wear tonight?” Chris asks, rubbing his cheek against the soft wool, and he can hear Mika’s sigh. It makes him smile.

“Something nice. No ripped jeans.”

“Tux?”

Mika snorts. “You didn’t bring a tux, shut up. Doesn’t have to be a suit, either. Just classy.”

“I’m not classy,” Chris points out, eyes drifting shut again.

“Well, you’ll just have to pretend. Now get off my bed and go get ready.”

Chris grumbles but obeys.

 

Mika’s idea of classy is taking Chris for a stroll through Stockholm’s Old Town, giving Chris as much time as he wants to poke through the tiny shops lining the narrow streets. Mika engages the shopkeepers in easy conversation as Chris explores to his heart’s content, uncovering fascinating treasures in cramped, dark corners such as a first edition of Pippi Longstocking and a carved wooden horse, bright red with details in swirling blues and greens.

“You found a dala horse!” Mika says when he brings it and the book up to the counter. “They’re made by hand, you know.” He caresses the horse’s head as Chris pays for it and the book, then reluctantly surrenders it so the shopkeeper can wrap it up.

Outside on the street, Mika bumps shoulders with him. “Hungry yet or do you want to wander more? There’s an art gallery just up here.”

“Art gallery,” Chris decides immediately, and Mika laughs and leads the way.

It takes him over an hour to cover every inch of the gallery and make sure he hasn’t missed anything, but every time he checks in, Mika shows no signs of boredom. He’s talking to people, looking at the art, or just simply wandering while he waits, and he greets Chris with a smile every time he finds him again.

Back outside, with three paintings bought and waiting to be shipped to New York, Mika raises his eyebrows.

“Okay, now I’m ready to eat,” Chris says.

Mika calls a car and they roll through cobblestone streets, past warmly lit windows casting soft golden glows on the pavement as the sun sets. Mika’s profile is backlit, gazing down at his phone and typing something quickly before putting it back in his pocket.

Chris tries to pretend he wasn’t staring at him, glancing past and out the window. “Where are we going?”

Mika nudges him with a foot. “You’ll see.”

They pull up in front of a building with narrow windows and honey maple wood trimmings, light spilling through the glass and pooling on the pavement as they step out of the car.

Chris tugs on the hem of his sport coat and follows Mika inside, into a big, open space that smells like smoke and meat and wild greens. His mouth waters and he crowds up against Mika, who’s speaking to the host in soft, rolling Swedish. Chris is still learning, so he can only pick out a few words here and there, but from what he can gather, Mika tells her they have a reservation for nine and gives his name. The host nods, gathers menus, and gestures for them to follow her. Chris sneaks a peek at his watch—it’s five minutes until nine.

“How’d you do that?” he asks as soon as they’re settled in a booth that’s tucked off to the side, out of the way.

Mika gives him an inquiring glance, spreading his napkin over his lap. “Do what?”

“Get us here just in time for the reservation.”

The smile Mika gives him makes something inside Chris shiver and go dark and hot.

“I know you,” Mika says simply, and picks up his menu.

Chris’s eyebrows shoot up at that. “Oh you do, huh? Mr. ‘he’ll take sunscreen on vacation with him’?”

Mika’s smile widens. “So I made the mistake of assuming you have more common sense than you actually do. But still.” He gestures at the restaurant. “I knew the art gallery would take at least an hour, and hunting through the shops would eat up another ninety minutes. I know how your brain operates.”

Chris narrows his eyes. “Fine. Prove it. Order for me.”

“Oh, you’re on,” Mika says, and snatches the menu away. Chris lunges but Mika refuses to give it back, leaning away and holding both menus off to the side, fending off Chris’s grasping hands with a foot braced on the seat of Chris’s chair to hold him at bay. “Behave,” he hisses, trying desperately not to laugh. “This is a _nice place,_ dammit.”

The server arrives then, one eyebrow notching upward at the sight of Chris halfway across the table and Mika leaning away, and Chris sits back down with a thump.

Mika smiles at the young man and says something in Swedish. Whatever it is, it has Chris’s name in it and it seems to do the trick. The disapproval melts and the server gives them both a real smile and a quick bow. Mika gives him their drink order and the server bobs his head and disappears.

“Did you really just name-drop me?” Chris asks.

A smile tucks into the corner of Mika’s mouth. “It was that or be kicked out. Now shut up and let me decide what you’re eating.”

The server—Filip, Chris learns—comes back with a bottle of red wine that he presents for Mika’s approval. Once given, he pours a glass for each of them. It’s delicious, Chris is unsurprised to learn—velvety smooth with hints of berry and oak. He’s enjoying it so much, he misses most of what Mika says to Filip, who nods again and withdraws.

“So what are we eating?”

“I’m having the blackened langoustine,” Mika says, picking up his glass. “Yours is a surprise.” Chris mutters, and Mika gives him a sunny grin. “I love this place,” he says. “The chef is a friend. I DJ’d a party for her last year.”

“So you’re saying we’re getting free food?”

“Well, I am,” Mika says smugly. “You’re gonna have to pay full price.”

Chris kicks out at him and connects with his shin, judging from Mika’s stifled yelp.

“Knock it off,” Mika growls.

“Make me,” Chris counters.

Mika’s eyes go hot and Chris’s belly swoops in a dizzying dive. He feels like he’s in an elevator, free falling for the ground, and the sensation isn’t helped when Mika leans forward.

“Is that what you want, Kreids?”

Chris flounders for words. He’s not sure what Mika’s offering. _Is_ he offering anything? Is he truly saying what Chris thinks—hopes, wants so desperately? He’s opening his mouth to say something—anything—when Filip arrives. He sets a plate of cheese and beetroot drizzled with honey between them and Mika sits back.

Chris hates Filip. He hopes he stubs his toe every time he gets out of bed.

Mika is reaching for a piece of cheese. He pops it into his mouth, hums appreciatively as he chews, and picks up another piece. This time, though, he leans forward, holding Chris’s eyes.

Chris gulps and mirrors the action, watching Mika’s face as he opens his mouth. Mika places the cube of cheese on his tongue and Chris can’t help closing his lips around Mika’s fingers, feeling the callus on his knuckle where it rubs against his glove. Mika presses the pad of his index finger to Chris’s tongue briefly and then he’s pulling back, sitting up and clearing his throat.

Chris blinks, abruptly recalled to reality. Filip is arriving again, this time to top up their wine glasses. Chris hopes Filip’s shower is freezing every morning for a week.

Mika’s saying something, and Filip bows and disappears again.

“What’d you say?” Chris asks, more to fill the air than because he’s actually interested.

“I told him I’d pour,” Mika says, suiting action to word.

“What are we doing, Zee?” Chris asks.

“Having dinner,” Mika says.

“You know what I mean,” Chris snaps, and Mika’s dimple appears briefly, even as he puts a piece of beetroot into his mouth.

“Eat your appetizer,” is all he says.

Chris glowers but obeys. The beetroot is bitter and earthy, but the honey balances it out, brightening the dark taste of it. He adds a piece of cheese and makes a surprised noise. The creamy tang of the cheese softens the bite of the beetroot as the honey rounds out the finish.

Mika looks pleased as Chris reaches for more.

They polish off the appetizer in silence, and every time Chris glances up, Mika’s watching him. He makes no apologies, looking Chris over as if he’s the main course, and after about the fifth time, Chris clears his throat.

“So—”

Filip appears as if summoned and Chris stifles an enraged noise as he lowers a plate to the table in front of Mika, whose lips are twitching.

“Blackened langoustine,” he murmurs, then turns to Chris. “Hay flamed beef with Jerusalem artichoke and kohlrabi.” He sets the plate down and Chris forgets everything at the sight.

“Holy shit,” he mumbles, grabbing his fork, and Mika snickers into his wine. Chris moans around the first bite and Mika coughs, sets his glass down and reaches for a napkin.

So maybe Chris plays it up a bit, makes noises more pornographic than strictly necessary, but in his defense, the beef _is_ amazing—melting and tender and juicy.

Chris offers Mika a bite and Mika leans forward to accept it, lips wrapping around the tines of the fork and eyes never leaving Chris’s as he chews and swallows.

“I could eat nothing but this for the rest of my life,” Chris announces, and Mika arches a brow.

“So are you ready to admit I know you?”

Chris thinks it over, chewing. “I think I need more data.”

Mika rolls his eyes. “Finish up, we’re not done.”

 

Out on the street, after Mika paid—for both of them, over Chris’s strong objections—Chris sighs happily and slings an arm over Mika’s shoulders.

Mika leans into him willingly as they walk.

“I love it here,” Chris says.

“I know,” Mika murmurs. His arm is around Chris’s waist, and Chris is only a little tipsy from the wine but he’s grateful for the steadying support in any case. “I love having you here. In my world. You fit so well.”

Chris nearly kisses him right there, is in fact bending to do it, when Mika steers them toward a small store and holds the door open for him.

It’s an ice cream shop, Chris discovers when he steps inside, and he perks up.

“Not too full?” Mika inquires.

“For ice cream?” Chris makes a rude noise.

“He’ll have the _hjortronglass,”_ Mika tells the shop clerk, a young woman who’s very clearly recognized them.

“What’s that?” Chris asks, pushing up beside him as Mika peruses the flavors, and Mika absently wraps an arm around his waist again.

“Cloudberry,” he tells him, and turns back to the clerk. “I’ll have the _saltlakritsglass.”_

“What’s _that?”_

“Salted licorice.”

Chris wrinkles his nose and Mika’s eyes warm with affection.

“It’s good, I promise. Do you want to sit down and eat or walk?”

“Walk,” Chris says immediately. They both give the girl behind the counter an autograph and Mika winks at her, making her blush as they turn for the door.

The ice cream is delicious, and Mika laughs at him when he offers a taste.

“The flavors don’t match, but thank you.”

Chris looks around him as they walk, taking in the sights and sounds. People smile at them, but no one approaches, or looks askance at the way Mika’s somehow gotten their hands linked, thumb lightly stroking Chris’s skin.

“Let’s play some hockey tomorrow,” Mika says after a few minutes. “There’s a rink not far from my place. I can rent it for a couple of hours, have it to ourselves.”

“Ugh, fine,” Chris says. “You _do_ know me. You win. Happy?”

Mika’s dimple flashes. “Getting there.” He finishes off his ice cream and digs out his phone to call a ride.

 

This time in the car, Chris doesn’t make a secret out of watching him. He’s open about it, taking in all the things he loves about the man sitting beside him. His sleepy brown eyes, deceptively soft and heavy-lidded. Chris loves Mika’s eyes more than anything, he thinks, but his mouth runs a close second, full and tempting. Chris wants to press a finger to his lower lip, slip it inside and feel Mika suck on it. He shifts his weight, the arousal that’s been simmering under his skin since the restaurant beginning to get urgent, and Mika’s lips quirk.

He trails a hand along Chris’s thigh, touch featherlight and barely there, and Chris gulps and lets his legs fall open in silent invitation. Mika’s fingers creep upward, ghost over Chris’s crotch where he’s rapidly hardening, and then Mika’s pulling away, adjusting his coat and addressing the driver in Swedish, and Chris just barely suppresses the groan as the car pulls to a stop.

Mika steps out and Chris follows, on his heels up the steps and inside the house. Mika shuts the door behind them and catches Chris’s shoulders, shoving him up against the wall in the dark entryway. Chris’s breath dies in his throat. Mika’s pressed up along his body in a searing line of heat, his dark eyes luminous from a few inches away.

“Have you thought about this?” he asks, and it’s so far from what Chris was expecting that he has to stop and mentally recalibrate.

“Haven’t thought about much else,” he finally admits.

“It could ruin… us,” Mika says. His hands are steady, but there’s real worry in his eyes.

“Or it could make us that much better,” Chris counters. He takes a chance and reaches out, resting his hands on Mika’s waist. Mika shivers but allows him, still searching his face. “We wouldn’t let it ruin us, anyway,” Chris whispers. Mika’s shirt is in the way, so he tugs it up to slip his hands underneath, fanning his fingers over satin skin. “We’re stronger than that.”

“Are we?” Mika sounds unsure for the first time that night.

In lieu of an answer, Chris kisses him, and oh, this is definitely the best idea he’s had in a long time. Mika’s mouth tastes even better than it looks, his lips soft and tongue chasing Chris’s as he groans, deep and rumbling so low in his chest that Chris can feel the vibrations in his fingers.

Chris is dizzy when Mika pulls away just far enough to fix him with a look.

“What do you want, Chris?”

Chris can’t help his laugh at that. “You’ve been telling _me_ what I want all night. _Now_ you’re gonna stop? Weak, Zee, really—”

Mika cuts him off with another hard kiss and Chris laughs against his mouth even as he crowds closer, hungry for every inch of contact he can soak up.

This time Mika looks thoughtful when he breaks away. “What do you want,” he muses. He lifts a hand, cups Chris’s cheek briefly, then drops it to his shoulder and presses.

Chris gets the hint immediately and drops to his knees so hard Mika winces, but he’s smiling down at him, drawing a thumb along Chris’s jaw.

“I think you want to suck me,” he murmurs, and a bolt of lust hits Chris so hard he sways with it.

“Yes please,” he pants, and Mika puts a finger against Chris’s lips.

“Shh. I think you want to be quiet, let me tell you what to do. Put your hands behind your back.”

Chris shudders all over. He closes his mouth and clasps his left wrist with his right hand. That earns him a smile as Mika lets go of him to unzip his pants. Chris watches, rapt, as he pushes them down over his hips and lets them fall to the floor. He’s never seen Mika hard, and he doesn’t want to waste a second of it. Mika’s cock is long and slim, just barely curved upward with a delicate tracery of veins showing faint blue under satin skin, and Chris has never wanted anything more in his life.

He opens his mouth to beg but Mika’s already there, guiding his cock inside, and Chris swallows a grateful noise as the taste of Mika’s pre-come bursts on his tongue, salty and bitter. He wraps his lips around the head and sinks down, taking in as much as possible in one smooth slide.

Above him, Mika swears in a thick voice and slams a fist against the wall. “Jesus _fucking_ Christ, your _mouth—”_

Chris hums happily and goes to work, keeping the suction tight and his movements rhythmic. Mika’s hips jerk and he hits the wall again, his free hand roaming over Chris’s face, his skull, down to cradle his cheek. He slips one finger into Chris’s mouth alongside his cock and then two, pressing against his tongue, stretching him open until tears are leaking down Chris’s cheeks from being stuffed so full.

Mika draws back briefly to give him a chance to catch his breath. “Okay?” he asks, and Chris nods, swaying on his knees.

“More,” he pleads, and almost cries with relief when Mika gives it to him.

This time, Mika holds Chris’s head still with both hands. “Don’t move,” he says, voice breathy. “I’m gonna fuck your face. Don’t move.”

Chris’s eyes slip shut of their own accord as Mika begins to thrust, shallowly at first, then harder, deeper, until he’s nudging the back of Chris’s throat. Chris’s jaw aches, as do his knees, and he’s holding his own wrist so tightly he’s going to bruise, but nothing comes even close to the feeling of Mika taking him, _using_ him, swearing in Swedish as his hips stutter and lose their rhythm. Hot, bitter liquid floods Chris’s mouth and he swallows and chokes, swallows again, desperate not to lose a drop, eyes streaming tears as Mika shakes through the orgasm and then finally lets go and collapses to his knees beside him. He’s breathing like he’s been bag-skated, sagging forward into Chris’s arms. Chris holds him, stroking his back, cheek against Mika’s sleek hair until he finally stirs and lifts his head.

His eyes are soft in the moonlight from the window beside the door. “That was—fuck. I knew it would be good, but… _fuck.”_ He reaches for Chris’s zipper and draws it down, gently freeing his straining erection. Chris sighs, relieved, and twists sideways just enough to press his face against Mika’s throat as Mika begins to stroke.

“You like that?” Mika murmurs. Chris nods wordlessly, unable to speak. Pleasure is coursing through his veins, shivering through his bones, and he can feel the familiar pressure already building in his chest as Mika drives him toward the edge with strong, steady strokes. “Put your arms around my neck,” Mika orders, and Chris immediately obeys.

That’s even better, he finds. He’s able to hold on, to balance himself, give over entirely to the feelings, and he can’t help the buck of his hips when Mika swipes a thumb over the tip of his cock.

“Next time, I’m gonna fuck you,” Mika whispers in his ear, and Chris groans raggedly, thrusting helplessly into his fist. “Spread you out on my bed, take my time fingering you open until you’re begging for it, until you can’t think about anything except getting my cock inside you.” His hand is speeding up and Chris tightens his grip on Mika’s neck. He’s close—he’s so close—a soft breeze would push him over the edge—

And Mika stops.

Chris _whines,_ thrusting against the air vainly, looking for friction that isn’t there. “Please,” he begs. “Mika, _please,_ I’m so close—”

Mika hums and gives him a light stroke, barely there. Chris shakes but Mika’s hand is already gone again.

Chris’s groan is probably audible from the street, and Mika laughs as he shushes him with a hand over his mouth. Chris stiffens— _yes please oh please—_ and Mika, quick, clever Mika who never misses a beat, Mika who knows Chris inside and out, gets it immediately.

“You like that,” he croons, and holds Chris’s mouth shut as he clasps him with his other hand. “You like me keeping you quiet?” He’s stroking again. Chris’s brain cells have scattered, vanished without a trace, and he doesn’t try to reply, just clings even tighter as Mika finds his rhythm again. “When I have you in my bed,” Mika whispers, up against Chris’s ear, “and my cock is buried deep in your ass, I’m gonna put three fingers in your mouth, fill you right up, keep you—”

Chris loses the rest of the sentence as he shakes apart in helpless gasps, spurting hot and wet over Mika’s still-moving hand. He doesn’t try to stop the sob that tears through him, collapsing dead-weight against Mika’s chest.

Mika gets an arm around Chris’s waist and shifts them just enough so they’re comfortable, his back against the wall and Chris facedown on his chest. They sprawl like that for awhile on the hard linoleum floor, until the cold begins to seep into Chris’s bones and he stirs, lifting his head.

He’s not sure what he’ll see when he meets Mika’s eyes. Regret? Shame? But all he finds is happiness, and Chris can’t help kissing him again as his own heart lifts. He’s exhausted, wrung out and spent in the best possible way, but he feels so buoyant he thinks he might float away.

“Shower,” Mika says, and helps him get to his feet.

Chris follows him down the hall toward the bedroom, steps wobbly. It doesn’t matter. He’s following Mika. He’s _got_ Mika, and he can’t wait to see what happens next.

**Author's Note:**

> There's a video of Chris and Mika answering "how well do you know each other" questions. One of them was "what would Chris take on vacation". Mika's answer was sunscreen, Chris's answer was his Kindle. Hence, this fic was born.
> 
> (In the same video, when they're asked who Mika would go on a week-long vacation with, their answers are both instantly "Chris". So like! OKAY!)
> 
> Anyway, [I'm on Tumblr](http://greymichaela.tumblr.com), where I have feelings about goalies and pretend to be a functioning adult. Come talk to me!


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